


Prized

by sciencefictioness



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alpha Genji, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Baihu Genji Shimada, M/M, Mating Bites, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mating Rituals, Mild Gore, Sibling Incest, Tournaments, implications of dubcon, omega hanzo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-06 12:59:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15886557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciencefictioness/pseuds/sciencefictioness
Summary: All his life he has been groomed to be the head of the clan, the next in line to lead them now that Sojiro is gone.  Then Genji presented first; an alpha, coming into his dynamic well before Hanzo, and the elders became wary.  Rightfully so.  A year later here they are, Hanzo dressed in the traditional robes of an unmated Shimada omega— a gauzy white silk kimono, dragons etched strategically across it in blue, white ribbon tied in his hair.As if he needs to be reminded of what he is.As if it would be possible to forget with his heat humming alive in his veins, lighting him up with a hunger he cannot sate on his own.  A hunger he hasn’t been allowed to ease in the slightest.An omega’s first cycle is sacred, or so the elders insist, and not something he has the right to interfere with on his own.It is an alpha’s place to give you what you need, or withhold it, as they see fit.Hanzo wants to spit in their faces, but the instinct to do his duty is too deeply ingrained.Hanzo is a Shimada, even when he hates himself.Especially when he hates himself.





	1. Honor

 

It’s more serene than it has any right to be considering Hanzo’s world is coming to an end.

 

The trees are bright with cherry blossoms, sunlight filtering through the branches, petals soft under Hanzo’s bare feet.  The stone pathway is shaded, flowers fluttering slowly to the ground. Water runs in a stream between two koi ponds and Hanzo crosses the wooden bridge over it, listening to the sound of a bamboo fountain filling and emptying in its endless rhythm.  Gardens bloom lush around the ponds, meticulously maintained, birds trilling among the leaves.

 

Beautiful as always, but Hanzo has a hard time appreciating it today.

 

Hanzo’s wrists are bound in front of him with yellow silk.  It’s more ceremonial than anything else— Hanzo has no plans to run— but it makes everything more real, more immediate.  Reminds him where he stands in the grand scheme of things, what he is to his family now that he’s presented.

 

A piece of property to be passed along to whoever proves themselves worthy.

 

All his life he has been groomed to be the head of the clan, the next in line to lead them now that Sojiro is gone.  Then Genji presented first; an alpha, coming into his dynamic well before Hanzo, and the elders became wary. Rightfully so.

 

A year later here they are, Hanzo dressed in the traditional robes of an unmated Shimada omega— a gauzy white silk kimono, dragons etched strategically across it in blue, white ribbon tied in his hair.  

 

As if he needs to be reminded of what he is.

 

As if it would be possible to forget with his heat humming alive in his veins, lighting him up with a hunger he cannot sate on his own.  A hunger he hasn’t been allowed to ease in the slightest.

 

An omega’s first cycle is sacred, or so the elders insist, and not something he has the right to interfere with on his own.

 

_ It is an alpha’s place to give you what you need, or withhold it, as they see fit. _

 

Hanzo wants to spit in their faces, but the instinct to do his duty is too deeply ingrained.

 

Hanzo is a Shimada, even when he hates himself.

 

_ Especially  _ when he hates himself.

 

He spent the last two days a prisoner in his own home, heat clawing at him like an open flame— watched by the elders, bound like a criminal, and that isn’t the worst part of it.

 

Genji has been gone for a week.

 

The first hints of Hanzo’s omega scent had crept into the air, and Genji vanished like smoke, taking a piece of Hanzo with him.  It shouldn’t matter that he’s gone, Hanzo isn’t naive. Growing up under Sojiro’s fist left no room for it, and Hanzo has never had any illusions about how his life would play out. 

 

Never had any illusions that the things he feels for Genji would be met with anything other than violence.

 

Except Genji still comes to him at night as he always has, and crawls into Hanzo’s bed.  Wraps his arms around Hanzo, and noses into his throat,  _ everything will be okay, anija, I promise. _

 

_ I’ll find a way,  _ but now Genji is nowhere to be seen, and Hanzo is alone.

 

The guards who normally flank him as he wanders outside the castle are still present, but they watch Hanzo carefully, now; ready to pounce in case he spooks, and tries to flee.

 

He won’t, or at least he won’t yet.  If the panic comes it will come later.

 

When an alpha has won him like some sort of warprize, which Hanzo supposes he is— no longer fit to be heir, not with slick dripping between his thighs and heat flushing bright in his cheeks.  Not with desire surging up in him; a frantic, suffocating thing. 

 

No, now Genji will lead the clan, and Hanzo will be passed off to whichever alpha stands victorious in the arena at the end of the day.  A tournament to determine who is the strongest, and Hanzo has been to a dozen at least, but he never thought he’d attend one like this.

 

Trussed up in white on the balcony like an offering, watching helplessly as his fate is decided with steel and brutality.

 

He’s led down into the amphitheater on the outskirts of the castle grounds and escorted onto the platform behind the arena.  The elders have elected to sit elsewhere, and Hanzo is grateful for that, but the emptiness of the balcony has his stomach twisting.

 

Part of Hanzo had hoped to find Genji there waiting for him, but he isn’t, and Hanzo flexes his wrists until the silk protests under the strain.  

 

A guard kneels down and pulls a stone from the floor to reveal a chain with a single manacle dangling from the end.  It’s dusty with disuse, the Shimada clan hasn’t hosted a mating tournament in ages, but the links are still strong enough to serve their purpose.  The guard looks up at Hanzo, stone-faced, and Hanzo sighs and offers up one of his feet. The shackle is carefully snapped closed around his ankle, and when Hanzo pulls his foot back the chain clinks softly.  Musically, almost, high and tinkling.

 

Insult piled upon injury, and he sneers at the alpha, and looks away.

 

The curved stone benches are already full of spectators.  Some are from Hanamura, but others have flocked in from the surrounding territories to watch the fights take place.  Alphas from all the nearby clans wait underground, readying themselves for a long day of battle.

 

There are clan heads looking to add to their harems.  Unmated heirs, second sons and daughters. Commoners who are good with a blade, and willing to test their luck against lords and ladies with better weapons and better armor and all the time in the world to train.  Anyone can fight, as long as they’re an alpha, and whoever is standing victorious in the end wins the prize.

 

Wins Hanzo, who is better with a bow than anyone here.  Who can easily wield a sword with more skill than the alphas down below.  Who can wrestle any alpha in the clan into submission, save perhaps Genji, who doesn’t really try anymore.

 

Hanzo, who is more suited to leading his clan than anyone alive, but none of that matters anymore.

 

Not when an alpha will own him by sunset, and Hanzo bites back a snarl, and sits up straight with his head held high.

 

The first bouts of the day are always uninteresting, and even with his fate hanging in the balance Hanzo has a hard time paying attention.  These are alphas with more pride than good sense and watching them fight one another is painful for him. Their technical skill is abysmal, their weapons are shoddy, and the idea that they think they’re worthy of him is offensive in the worst way.

 

Hanzo wouldn’t trust them to muck his horse’s stall, let alone come into his bed. The wind changes direction, blowing his hair back from his face, ribbon fluttering in the breeze. 

 

He inhales, warmth swelling low in his belly, and Hanzo swears.  He may hate all these alphas on principle, but he can’t help the way their scent affects him with his heat on him like a second skin.  It’s tantalizing, and Hanzo can taste them in the air, thighs clenching as slick wells between them. The day is young but Hanzo is already sweating, cheeks flushing brighter, breath coming fast.  

 

By the time the sun is low in the sky Hanzo will be desperate, eager to spread his legs for whatever alpha will take him, and the thought is repulsive.  None of them are who he really wants.

 

None of them are Genji, and Hanzo swallows down the mournful sound that wants to pour from his throat— an omega’s call for their mate, but it would be in vain.

 

Genji wouldn’t hear it anyway.

 

He should have known he would present as an omega when Genji went into his first rut.  Hanzo had breathed him in, and something in him went loose, and pliant, and wanting. Even without the pull of his own dynamic Hanzo had known Genji was his.

 

Had known he was Genji’s.

 

Hanzo wonders if he’ll show up at all, or if the next time he sees Genji will be at some formal clan affair, both of them seated at opposite ends of a banquet table.  Dressed in fine clothes, drinking sake, feigning interest in territory disputes and bullshit formalities.

 

Pretending like they hadn’t lost everything when they lost each other, and maybe for Genji it will be true.

 

He’s leaving Hanzo to his fate, after all.

 

Leaving him to the whims and blades of a bunch of strange alphas, and when they are done Hanzo won’t even have it in him to resist.

 

Will beg for it, shamelessly, and Hanzo swallows down the need to be sick.

 

Dwelling on it does him no favors, but there’s little else to do to pass the time when the fighters down below are so inadequate.  The day drags slowly, and Hanzo’s toying with the ribbon at his wrists and staring off into nothing when something shifts in the ring below.  Murmurs roll through the crowd, hushed voices muttering back and forth, a quiet falling over the spectators that draws Hanzo’s attention.

 

There’s an alpha in the center of the arena that Hanzo doesn’t recognize; armor he doesn’t recognize, not from any of the clans allied with the Shimadas.  He’s dressed in dark teal, light armor settling over the fabric, covering his shins and wrists and shoulders. Steel boots and metal gloves, bright blue accents shining in places.  White fur spreads out across his shoulders, a thick tuft erupting from the top of his helmet. There’s a stylized tiger medallion on his chest, and another on his belt, but none of the noble families in the area use the tiger as their emblem.

 

A tiger coming to try and claim a dragon, and Hanzo wonders at the implications of it.

 

The armor is flashy and unfamiliar, but that isn’t what catches Hanzo’s eye.  This alpha isn’t some fourth son of a country lord come to try and prove himself to the Shimada clan.

 

This alpha is violence made flesh.

 

His opponent isn’t anything special, but that doesn’t take away from the artful way he moves— graceful, and deadly, and the fight is over before it has even begun.  He disarms the other alpha so quickly Hanzo can’t follow the motion with his eyes, then knocks him to the ground and presses a foot to his throat. The man writhes underneath him, trying to get free, but it’s no use.  The elders ring the bell signaling the end of the match, and the loser stands and slinks out of the arena in defeat.

 

The victorious alpha looks up towards the balcony where Hanzo sits and bows low, face raised like his eyes are locked on Hanzo.  He can’t see the alphas face through his helmet, but heat washes over Hanzo in a wave, and he lets out a rough breath. Sits frozen, pinned in place by the alphas stare until he finally stands up and exits the ring.  Hanzo watches him go, leaning forward in his seat like he might follow before he catches himself and sits back.

 

The matches are done in blocks, and it will be a while before this alpha is up again, but Hanzo finds he can’t look away from the fighting anymore.

 

Worried he might miss it when the alpha returns, and suddenly he’s much more alert, watching the proceedings with keen eyes.  The fighting continues, the rest of the combatants woefully disappointing now. On and on, the sun high overhead, bearing down mercilessly on them all.  They break for lunch a bit later, and most of the spectators wander out, but Hanzo doesn’t bother. 

 

An omega in heat rarely has any kind of appetite, and even so early in his cycle Hanzo is no exception.  He thinks of the alpha from earlier, and want spikes sharply in him— Hanzo’s body craves only one thing right now, and it certainly isn’t food.  

 

He sips cool water from a cup the guards provide him with, and waits for the tournament to resume, trying not to twist in place.  

 

Most of the weaker contenders have been weeded out by the time the afternoon matches begin, and the fighters facing one another now are much more skilled.  The matches take longer, and are more dangerous; blood streaks the dirt, and several of the defeated alphas are carried off on a litter instead of walking out under their own power.  

 

There are a few alphas Hanzo recognizes as the day wears on.  A daughter of the Fujita clan to the south. A set of twins from the Morita clan, a general of the Arai family.  All prominent, well established alphas, cutting their way through their opponents one after another. 

 

They would all make excellent allies to the Shimada clan, but Hanzo would rather eat a blade than call one of them his mate.

 

Then there is the mystery alpha, and every time he steps into the arena Hanzo’s breath catches in his throat, because it isn’t like watching a tournament anymore.

 

This alpha fights like his life depends on it, as though the men and women he battles have wronged him somehow.

 

Like it’s an affront that they would dare stand against him.

 

An affront that they would stand between him and Hanzo.

 

He breaks his opponents quickly, and brutally.  Finds his foes’ weaknesses and exploits them without fail, slipping under high guards, knocking alphas with sloppy footwork into the dirt.  Puts them on the ground with his blade to their throats and then looks over to Hanzo, waiting. 

 

Even when the bell sounds to end the matches he keeps them there, held in place by the sharp point of his sword until Hanzo nods out his approval.  None of the other alphas so much as glance at Hanzo, as though he isn’t even there, but this one looks to Hanzo for acknowledgement of his victory. Not the elders, not the bell.

 

_ Hanzo. _

 

He bows low in a way no one has since before Hanzo presented a week ago, and something primal stirs in Hanzo’s blood, and beats through his heart.  His heat is getting worse by the hour; Hanzo’s breathing is labored, and his skin aches with the need to be touched. He’s too warm, restless and writhing in his seat, the glands in his throat and thighs and wrists swollen and oversensitive.

 

He can feel them, damp with oil, pumping his scent into the air around him to lure in an alpha.

 

To lure in  _ his  _ alpha, and Genji isn’t here, but it doesn’t hurt as much as it should anymore.  

 

The sun dips lower in the sky, and some of the defeated alphas are now sitting in the crowd to watch the end of the tournament.  Things are winding down, and there are only a dozen or so alphas left in the running. One of the twins from Morita, the girl from Fujita, the general from the Arai family.  More alphas that he knows by sight, but not by name. 

 

And Hanzo’s alpha, who only has two matches to win before he makes it to the final round.  His next fight is against the Fujita heir, one of the more formidable opponents left. She’s lithe, and fast, and elusive.  Light on her feet with a sword hand that falls like a hammer, and Hanzo’s stomach roils with anxiety when the bell rings to sound out the start of the match.

 

Their styles are similar, both of them preferring speed and agility to brute force, and the way they move together is more like dancing than fighting.  It’s stark, and mesmerizing. 

 

Or it would be, if Hanzo’s future wasn’t tied to the outcome.  He watches with his heart in throat as they roll and dodge and evade, steel glancing off armor, the sound of metal on metal ringing through the air.  Hanzo is on the edge of his seat, clutching at the balcony’s railing, white knuckled with his jaw clenched so tightly it hurts. He doesn’t know why he’s so desperate for his alpha to win.

 

He’s a stranger.  Hanzo doesn’t know who he is or where he’s from or what he looks like.  He could be just as monstrous, just as foolish, just as hideous as any of the other alphas present.  

 

But Hanzo’s instincts are impossible to rail against, and they yearn for this alpha like they only ever have for one other person.

 

_ Like Genji,  _ he thinks, in that instant the Fujita alpha’s sword hits his alpha’s helmet just right.

 

Just wrong, and it flies off his head, and clatters to the dirt of the arena.  Black hair, and bright eyes, a face Hanzo would know anywhere.

 

Genji smiles.

  
  


	2. Victor

Genji is smug, and predatory, and entirely shameless.

 

His hair is matted, and sweat drips down his throat and into his clothes.  He’s red faced, blood in his teeth and dirt streaked across his cheek, gore oozing from a split lip. 

 

Genji’s beautiful, and Hanzo whines— he’s suddenly so wet that his thighs slip against one another, and Hanzo can smell  _ himself,  _ can scent the desperate, vivid need that clouds the air around him.  Hanzo’s kimono falls off one shoulder, and the silk is soaked underneath him, obi coming loose as he shifts in place.  The chain on his ankle chimes, dragging across the stone, heavy and cumbersome.

 

Genji looks up at Hanzo and winks, the Fujita alpha still staring wide eyed, and that moment of shocked hesitation is more than Genji needs.  She’s face down before she realizes Genji has moved, one arm twisted up behind her back, Genji’s foot pressing her weapon hand into the ground.  The bell rings, but Genji doesn’t move to let her up.

 

He looks to Hanzo, waiting.  Grinning, eyes glittering, and all Hanzo can hear is Genji’s voice in his head.

 

_ Everything will be okay, anija, I promise. _

 

_ I’ll find a way. _

 

Hanzo nods, and at his signal Genji lets the alpha get to her feet.  Bows low, looking up at Hanzo from beneath his lashes, damp hair just long enough to fall in his eyes.  Pretty, he’s so fucking pretty, and Hanzo whines again. He can’t help it— he wants, he  _ wants,  _ and Genji is right there.  Fighting for Hanzo, a slap in the face of the elders and the clans and Genji doesn’t care, because Hanzo is his and Genji...

 

He’s Hanzo’s.

 

The sound Hanzo makes is loud and pathetic; purely omegan, and all the alphas in earshot turn towards him.  Instinctively seeking to quiet Hanzo, to give him what he so desperately needs, and when one of them lets out a rumbling growl in answer Genji snarls.  His lip curls back from his teeth, and he stands taller, shoulders back and chest out.

 

It’s vicious, a clear threat, and it has Hanzo’s hands slipping between his thighs of their own volition.  He sifts through the folds of his kimono, and when his fingers brush against the achy, throbbing wetness behind his sac he shudders hard.  A guard is there in an instant, hand wrapped around Hanzo’s bicep, jerking his arms forcefully from his clothes.

 

Genji’s snarl swells louder at that, and he takes a step forward and levels the guard with a glare.  The guard releases Hanzo’s arm, palms up in a placating gesture, but with a resigned look on his face; he’s only doing his duty, as tradition dictates.  

 

An unmated omega of royal standing has no right to ease themselves without their alphas permission.  Hanzo bares his teeth at the guard and resentfully rests his shaking hands on the rail of balcony in front of him.  The light catches on Hanzo’s fingers, slick dripping down over his knuckles, fluid shining in the slanting rays of sunset.  The smell of it is sweet and overpowering, and Genji’s nostrils flare as he takes it in, free hand fisting tight. He licks over his teeth, and shakes himself, and finally, finally leaves the ring.

 

The other fights go by in a blur, all the drama of the end of a mating tournament well accounted for, but Hanzo isn’t watching them.  He’s staring at the doorway Genji vanished into, disappearing underground until his next fight. It doesn’t matter who’s in the arena now, who wins, who loses.

 

Not if they aren’t standing across from Genji.

 

If the alphas are offended that Hanzo is paying them no mind he doesn’t notice.  Their battling is nothing but background noise as Hanzo rubs his thighs together, and huffs out rough breaths, waiting impatiently for Genji to return.  The crowd is much more subdued since Genji was revealed, quietly scandalized.

 

It’s a fairly normal occurence for alphas related to a newly presented omega to fight in the mating tournament.  It’s sign of respect for the alphas competing, and a way to weed out any particularly unsavory contenders. To ensure their sons or daughters or siblings aren’t mated off to an enemy clan, or someone they view as unsuitable.  A show of good faith, an insurance policy.

 

That’s not what Genji is doing, and everyone knows it.  

 

There is nothing to forbid him from fighting for Hanzo, but it’s obvious no one expected such a thing.  The Shimada elders hiss at one another under their breath, leaning in close as they gesture in sharp motions, looking from Hanzo to the shadows where Genji lies in wait and back again.  

 

They cannot stop Genji from competing.  The mating tournament is a sacred tradition, and the outcome is absolute, and inarguable.  If they try to interfere the other clans and elders will riot, and it’s satisfying beyond measure to watch them frowning, brows furrowed, mouths flattened with unhappiness.

 

Hanzo and Genji are much, much easier to control individually than they are together, and the elders well know it.  If Genji wins, their influence in the affairs of the Shimada clan will drop down to nothing, and all they can do is watch.  It’s something Hanzo should take great pleasure in, and he’s certain he will, later on. When the elders are under his thumb, forced to show him respect instead of allowed to forget he exists entirely, shuffled away to some other clan as a trophy omega.

 

In that moment the rest of the world is miles away, and there is only Genji.

 

He steps out into the arena, his helmet left behind, and he’s not looking at the Morita alpha across from him.  Genji’s looking at Hanzo, and Hanzo bites back another whine, and clenches his fists. 

 

Genji takes his place in the center of the ring, and lifts his sword up to his mouth— presses his lips to the flat of the blade, and then holds it out towards Hanzo.  It’s a promise if Hanzo’s ever seen one, and he can’t get enough air in his lungs, can’t stop himself from shivering. The Morita alpha scoffs and mutters something derisive Hanzo can’t make out, but Genji hears.  Goes still, narrows his gaze.

 

The bell rings, and Genji is a force of nature.  A typhoon making landfall, waves crashing merciless against the shore.

 

The bell rings again, and the Morita alpha is gurgling under Genji’s sword, jaw sitting unnaturally on his face and blood pouring from his mouth.

 

Only after Hanzo nods does Genji allow him to be dragged away.

 

Genji bows to him, and Hanzo doesn’t realize he’s trying to vault over the railing until he reaches the end of his chain, leg jerked forcefully behind him before his guards pull him back down into his seat.

 

_ “My lord,”  _ one of them bites out, exasperated, but Hanzo barely notices.

 

He’s seen the way some omegas behave at their mating tournaments, how their heat presses more and more heavily upon them as the day goes on until they can think of nothing but satisfying it.

 

Nothing but the need to be bitten, and fucked, and knotted.

 

To be taken, and bred, and owned, and Hanzo understands, now, that all-consuming, visceral desire that eclipses everything else.

 

He needs Genji, needs him  _ now,  _ and that he has to wait feels like the grossest kind of injustice.  Hanzo twists his wrists in the confines of the silk binding them, chest heaving as he tugs his kimono looser.  The fabric is stifling against his skin, sheer and sticking to his thighs where his slick has ruined it, and Hanzo wants to tear it from his body.  The ribbon in his hair is equally frustrating; too tight, pulling on his scalp until it feels sore, and Hanzo claws absently at it. Ink dark strands spill around his face, tangling there; he’s flushed and filthy and disheveled.  Hanzo knows what he looks like.

 

Exactly what he is— an omega, alive with want, aching for Genji.

 

Genji seems reluctant to leave the arena this time, as well, but eventually he forces himself to do so, looking over his shoulder at Hanzo as he is swallowed by the shadows leading underneath the amphitheatre.  There is only one more fight, the winner of which will face Genji in the final match. The Arai general against some alpha Hanzo doesn’t know, and it’s clear from the moment the bell rings how things are going to play out.  

 

Nobody is surprised when the general is left standing in the end.  He goes down the steps beneath the arena, which is swept and prepared for the last fight, and Hanzo should be nervous.  Should be worried, should be afraid.

 

There is no room for any of that in him then, not with his heat pounding against his skin with every beat of his heart, and the question in his mind isn’t if Genji will win or not.

 

It’s  _ why. _

 

Why is Genji taking so long when he is suffering this way, Hanzo’s desire sharpening until it is painful, a blaze that burns him from within?  Why isn’t he there next to Hanzo, teeth in his neck and hands in his clothes, giving him what he needs?

 

Flames flicker to life in a circle around the amphitheatre, torches being lit as the sun drops further beneath the horizon, the first few stars shimmering in the night sky above them.  Drums sound out as Genji and the Arai general emerge from opposite sides of the arena, but there is none of the clapping from the crowd that usually accompanies the last match, none of the rhythmic stomping or cheering.  Everything is otherwise eerily silent.

 

Only the drums, and Hanzo’s whining— a sound he can’t swallow now, can’t even  _ try  _ to swallow.  Genji isn’t looking at Hanzo, this time.  Can’t afford to, not against this alpha, and Hanzo leans forward in his seat, fingers clutching at the railing, chained foot sliding across the floor.

 

“Young master,” a voice says to his left, and Hanzo startles, turning his head to glare at the elder he finds there.

 

“Go… go away, gods, go away,” he says, breathless and unable to focus, looking back towards Genji with his heart fluttering wild behind his ribs.

 

“Young master, you cannot allow this.  He will concede. He will concede if you tell him to,” the elder says, low and fast.  Genji and the Arai general are already closing the distance between each other, anticipation heavy in the air.  Hanzo blinks slowly, brows furrowed in confusion.

 

“The Arai general?” Hanzo asks without turning away from Genji, more exhale than voice, and this elder, he’s mistaken.  The Arai general is far too proud to concede defeat, especially to an alpha as young as Genji. The elder lets out a small noise of frustration and crouches lower, inserting himself into Hanzo’s line of sight.

 

_ “Genji.   _ Genji will concede at your behest, you know he will.  No one will fault you for it. This- this is madness. I will tell the other elders for you, tell the guards your wishes.  Quickly, before the bell sounds, I’ll-”

 

The elder stands, as though he’s going to try and stop the match.

 

As though he’s going to tell Genji that Hanzo wants him to concede, and Hanzo leaps at the elder in a rush.  Pins him to the ground, bound hands wrapped around his neck. Hanzo squeezes, and the elder claws at his wrists, eyes wide as Hanzo chokes every last bit of air from his lungs.

 

“You will  _ not.   _ I’ll kill you here and now if I must, I swear it.”  Hanzo leans down until their faces are an inch apart, eyes burning with fury, teeth bared.  

 

Sojiro and the elders have taken so much from Hanzo, and he will not allow them to take this.

 

“You wouldn’t  _ dare,”  _ Hanzo says, and the guards make no move to pull him off.  

 

He may be chained and ceremonially bound but an angry omega in heat is a volatile thing, and it is not their duty to protect foolish elders from Hanzo.  His growl ratchets up a notch, vibrating in his throat; a primal, ancient sound, and the elder makes a strangled grunt, and goes limp underneath him. Hanzo doesn’t loosen his grip, doesn’t care if this elder dies here, a victim of his own stupidity.

 

Then the wind changes, and Hanzo’s head whips around to face the arena, nostrils flaring as a fresh scent hits him like a punch to the stomach.  It’s thick, and rich, and heady.

 

It’s Genji, but it’s been a year since he’s smelled like  _ this,  _ and even then it was just a faint echo of what Hanzo’s scenting now.

 

Genji, in rut.

 

Genji in rut for  _ Hanzo. _

 

Hanzo climbs to his feet, leaning against the railing as much as his shackled ankle will allow, breathing in so deeply his lungs feel like they might burst.  An alpha’s rut is only triggered by two things— their presentation, and the scent of an omega’s heat. 

 

Their mate, or an omega they consider their mate, and no one else.

 

Genji is breathtaking in the light from the torches, blood splattered across his face, armor glimmering silver and blue and crimson.  

 

_ Mine,  _ Hanzo thinks, and growls again.  His mouth waters, and he can feel moisture dripping down his thighs.  Hanzo is so empty it hurts, and Genji smells like warmth, and want. 

 

Like home.

 

The bell rings, and Genji is in motion.  

 

Hanzo has a few long minutes of terrified uncertainty, because the Arai general is made of stone, grounded and unmoving.  Genji circles and strikes, again and again, but none of his blows are doing much damage and the Arai alpha seems unfazed. He blocks, and parries, avoiding most of Genji’s attacks with a minimal amount of movement, like Genji is a fly he is waiting to swat down as soon as he sees the opportunity.  

 

It takes longer than it should for Hanzo to realize the general is slowing, but Genji is not.

 

If anything Genji is getting faster.  More agile, strikes falling harder, his footwork intricate and difficult to follow.  Hanzo watches Genji breathe in those moments before he attacks, Genji’s chest heaving, his face flushed.  Lips too red, eyes too wild, and  _ oh, _ Hanzo knows what’s happening, now.

 

Genji is in rut, and it’s making him savage and unstoppable.

 

The Arai general is sluggish, having a hard time keeping up, blocks sloppy and shield drooping.  Genji wears him down with every glancing blow— rolling deftly out of the way of his sword, sliding under the blade, flipping over it.  Like liquid.

 

Like dancing, and Hanzo knows how hard it is to keep up with Genji in a fight, that every moment he isn’t watching is a moment Genji gains ground.  Hanzo can see where he would press his own attack, where he would fall back, can pick out the infinitesimal flaws in Genji’s defense.

 

Hanzo can, but he has spent most of his life watching Genji too closely, falling in love with the way he moves.

 

This general doesn’t stand a chance.

 

It’s over the moment Genji manages to knock his shield away, and they both know it, but the Arai alpha makes Genji work for it anyway.  Genji doesn’t slow, doesn’t ease back; just keeps coming until he lands a heavy slash on the general’s weapon hand, hard enough that his sword goes flying halfway across the arena.  The Arai alpha knows that he’s been beaten, and doesn’t try to keep fighting where there is no victory to be had.

 

He bows to Genji, muttering something low with a weary smile.  Genji returns the gesture, and the bell rings, but not the same bell as before.  This one is deep, and resounding, loud enough that everyone in Hanamura will hear it and know the tournament is over.

 

That Hanzo has been won.

 

Someone’s fingers brush against his ankle, but it isn’t Genji, and Hanzo jerks away and growls at them.  One of his guards looks up from where he is crouching, palms up, a key in one hand; he is only trying to unlock Hanzo’s shackle.  Normally they would wait until his new alpha had him well in hand, in case Hanzo fought, but there is no need to worry about that.

 

Genji is coming.

 

Hanzo lets the guard remove the manacle, and as soon as he is free he stumbles his way down to the raised platform next to the balcony.  A stage of sorts, and the Shimada elders linger on the edges of it, along with some of the leaders of the other clans. Genji climbs the steps, eyes locked on Hanzo, steady and unwavering.

 

He’s smiling so wide it has to hurt, one hand already reaching out to Hanzo, even though he is only halfway up the stairs.  Fingers splayed, and Hanzo moves, ready to run down to meet him when an elder steps into his path. Not the elder from before, but someone else, and he’s not looking at Hanzo.

 

He’s looking at Genji, who stops once he reaches the platform, smile falling from his face.

 

“Young master, stop this.  Be reasonable, you cannot-”

 

Genji unsheathes his sword, and the sound of it echoes loudly throughout the arena, metal singing against metal.  The elders from the other clans look wary, and Hanzo doesn’t blame them.

 

An alpha has every right to raise their sword against someone who stands between them and the omega they’ve won.  Genji could kill him and no one would bat an eye.

 

“Move aside,” Genji says, and the elder opens his mouth as though he’s going to argue when another cuts him off.

 

“Hiro, do not be reckless,” he hisses, tugging at his elbow.  “It is done. Move aside.”

 

His mouth clicks shut, and he isn’t pleased, but he steps back out of the way.  Genji sheathes his blade again, and Hanzo closes the distance between them, falling to his knees before Genji.

 

As tradition says he should, and Hanzo rankled at the thought that morning, but now it just feels right.  

 

To be Genji’s, always, in every sense of the word.

 

Hanzo’s hair is in his eyes, and he feels naked without Genji’s skin on his, gutted without his touch.

 

Hollow without his knot.

 

Genji reaches down and brushes Hanzo’s hair back from his face, cupping his cheek, and Hanzo shakes as he leans into the contact.  Genji’s smiling again, thumbing away a tear Hanzo hadn’t known was there, and he smiles back. 

 

“Got you,” Genji says, “mine now.” 

 

Hanzo nods.   _ Yes. _

 

_ Yours. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Give me what I want, tell me more nice things


	3. Spoils

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not... entirely sure how to tag for this, but this version of a/b/o biology features alphas and omegas with a variation of intersex genitalia, ie Hanzo has both a penis and testes as well as a sort of vaginal opening where his perineum would normally be, just. So you're aware. ANYWAY, here you go.

Someone is speaking, the words rote and rhythmic— something about mates, and victory, but Hanzo isn’t listening.  Neither is Genji, tugging Hanzo up to his feet with careful hands. Hanzo’s wrists are still bound, and Genji ducks underneath them and pulls Hanzo into his arms.  It shouldn’t be so effortless, lifting Hanzo like he weighs nothing at all, but Genji is in rut for him.

 

Carrying Hanzo is what he’s made for, and right then it’s as easy as breathing.

 

Hanzo runs shaky fingers through Genji’s hair, shoving his face into Genji’s throat with a whimper.  His scent is heavier there, the skin over his glands oily against Hanzo’s lips, and Hanzo opens his mouth to taste it.  Licks up the wetness, shivering all over, trying to press himself tighter against Genji. There is metal in his way, layers of armor and fabric between them, and Hanzo pulls at Genji’s hair in complaint.  Hanzo wants them both laid bare, wants them to be skin on skin.

 

Wants Genji on him, and in him, surrounding him until Genji is all Hanzo can see or feel or smell.

 

He’s forgotten where they are when someone steps a bit too close, eliciting a feral growl from Genji.  Hanzo listens to their footsteps retreat, and Genji noses at his throat, kissing Hanzo softly. It feels perfect but it isn’t nearly enough.

 

Softly isn’t what Hanzo wants at all.

 

“Genji, please,” Hanzo says, tilting his head to expose his throat.

 

He wants Genji to bite him, wants his mark sunk in deep.  Wants it to take, and scar, so he can wear it there forever.

 

It’s what the elders and the crowd are waiting for as well.  The mating isn’t often performed publicly anymore, but the tournament won’t truly be over until the claiming bite is done for everyone to see.  Genji scrapes his teeth over Hanzo’s glands, nuzzling in hard, smearing the oil there across his face.

 

“Can I, anija?”  Genji asks quietly, and Hanzo keens.  Tugs Genji’s hair, and shoves into his mouth.

 

“Genji I need you,  _ now,” _ Hanzo orders, and Genji lets out a guttural rumble, and opens his jaw wide.

 

His teeth sink into Hanzo, and it’s everything he’s ever wanted, and more.  The sharp sting is overridden by the ecstasy that lights Hanzo up from within, and he trembles under Genji’s mouth, fisting his hair to hold him in place.  Hanzo shakes, kimono dropping off both his shoulders now, the obi hanging useless around his waist.

 

Blood trickles from Genji’s mouth as he bites down harder, and Hanzo can feel Genji in his veins.  Can feel the mate bond settle into place, and it’s not magic, not exactly. Just biology, Genji’s reacting with his own, but it seems like so much more.

 

Like everything that matters.  Genji etched into his skin, living in his bones, beating with his heart.

 

Genji releases the bite reluctantly, pulling back with Hanzo’s blood on his lips and chin.  Staining his teeth, and he gives Hanzo a smile that is viciously happy. The arm supporting Hanzo’s shoulders slides up, hand wrapping around his neck, and then Genji’s fingers find the teeth marks he’s left in Hanzo’s throat.  He runs his fingertips through the gore, rubbing at the wound as though he can’t believe it’s really there.

 

It’s painful in the best way, and Hanzo leans up and kisses him.  There’s nothing else he can do, not with Genji so close, his rut thick in Hanzo’s lungs.  Hanzo can taste his own blood on Genji’s tongue, and he licks further into him with a whine.  Their mouths fit together as they always have, as though made for one another, but now it isn’t some forbidden thing stolen in the dark of his room.

 

Now no one can take this from him.

 

Hanzo doesn’t notice they’ve moved until they’re out of the amphitheatre and well into the gardens.  Genji just keeps kissing him, over and over, feet carrying them both unerringly back towards the castle.  Hanzo is restless, but some of his need has rolled back now that he is in Genji’s arms, covered in his scent, marked with his teeth.  

 

They cross the wooden bridge between the koi ponds, fountain still filling and emptying endlessly, the water and flowers and stones idyllic once again.  Beautiful once again, because Hanzo gets to stay here.

 

Genji gets to keep him.

 

The castle is quiet, servants milling around in the periphery, and none of them seem surprised to see Genji carrying Hanzo through the halls like a prize.  Quarters have been prepared for Hanzo and his new mate, as is the custom. A guest room, readied with a futon and blankets and food and drink, but Genji bypasses it entirely.  

 

He brings Hanzo to his own room instead, but Genji’s bedroom looks nothing like it did that morning.  Hanzo had snuck in before dawn, sun still well beneath the horizon, and crawled into Genji’s futon. Laid there, breathing Genji’s fading essence in like a drug until the elders noticed he was gone and started calling his name.  

 

It isn’t the same place, now.

 

Genji must have come here in between his matches, running from the castle to the arena and back again; Hanzo can scent no one else in the room but Genji and himself, no servants, nothing.  There are basins of fresh water laden with ice, and bowls of fruit, a tea tray in the corner with cups turned upside down. Instead of Genji’s lone futon in the center of the room there is a pile of them, covered in blankets and pillows and sheets.

 

Covered in Genji’s clothes.  Clothes that have been worn, blankets that have been slept on—  his scent is thick on everything, and Hanzo aches.

 

Genji has built him a nest.

 

Hanzo lifts his bound hands up over Genji’s head, unhooking them from Genji’s neck, and starts struggling desperately to unlatch his armor.  Kisses him again, working blindly to get Genji out of his gear, fingers clumsy and ineffectual. Genji carries him over to the pallet and kneels beside it, breaking their kiss to deposit Hanzo onto the blankets.  Hanzo chases after his mouth, grasping at Genji’s chest plate, and Genji laughs softly as he eases him back.

 

“It will be faster if you let me,” he says, and Hanzo growls but obeys, laying down in the pile of bedding as Genji stands and starts taking off his armor.

 

He shoves his nose into one of Genji’s training gis, holding it up to his face and shooting Genji a baleful look.  Removing armor isn’t a fast process, and Genji is doing his best, but it’s still going too slowly for Hanzo’s tastes; Hanzo hurts, he  _ wants, _ and Genji isn’t fixing it.  He arches in the blankets, thighs sliding together, kimono dragging tortuously across his swollen nipples.  He’s whimpering without meaning to, pitiful little exhales, and Genji rumbles out a growl in response.

 

Hanzo can feel it in his chest, how Genji’s crooning has him relaxing, even through the sharp pull of his need. 

 

Then he remembers they are far away from prying eyes, and there is no one to stop him from doing as he likes.  Hanzo’s hands are between his thighs in an instant, slipping into his kimono and down behind his sac to find the sensitive slit there.  It isn’t something Hanzo’s always had, the smooth seam of flesh swelling and parting painfully as he approached his heat. Even now, in the throes of his cycle, it’s still not fully open.

 

Something Genji will have to coax apart, and Hanzo shoves his fingers against the overheated flesh, and moans.  It’s wet, gods, everything is wet— his clothes, his thighs, his hands. The ribbon on his wrists, and he could untie it, now, but doesn’t bother.  

 

Being bound for Genji feels right just like kneeling had felt right, and Hanzo is beyond fighting it.

 

Hanzo lifts his hips and palms himself, massaging at parts of his body he’s never explored before, shivering with how good it feels.

 

The noise he makes is animal, knees falling wide as he grinds into his own touch, and he has his brother’s immediate attention.  Genji’s unfastening the armor that sits over his calves, and he stumbles as his eyes snap over to Hanzo, hopping on one foot for a moment as he wrestles the last of the metal off in a panic.

 

“Hanzo,” Genji whines, sullen and offended, like Hanzo is taking something from him.

 

Hanzo looks over at him through lidded eyes, toes curling in the fabric beneath him as he grinds the heel of one hand against his slit.

 

_ “Genji,”  _ he says, thighs shaking, and Genji falls all over himself in his haste to get to Hanzo.

 

He wrenches the rest of his clothes off as he drops down onto the pallet, settling between Hanzo’s knees.  Genji leans forward to kiss him, knocking Hanzo’s hands away and laying his palm flat against Hanzo’s sex instead.

 

Genji’s touch is so much better than his own that Hanzo sobs with relief.

 

“I’m sorry I left you when you needed me, I’m sorry, but if I had stayed the elders would have known.  I couldn’t be near you without touching you, not with you smelling like  _ this,”  _ Genji says, fingers delving gently into Hanzo, making him see stars.  

 

“They would have stopped me from fighting in the tournament.  Injured me, somehow, poisoned me, I don’t know. I didn’t want to leave you here alone, I swear I didn’t,” Genji murmurs, mouthing at Hanzo’s throat now, at the bloody imprint of his teeth.  “You forgive me, right?” Genji asks, voice lilting as he works his fingers up and down Hanzo, easing them deeper into him with every stroke. 

 

Hanzo quakes, panting so hard he’s dizzy with it, mouth falling wide.  He ruts down into Genji’s hand, cock hard and leaking onto his stomach, hands pawing at Genji’s chest.  

 

“Genji, please,” Hanzo begs, scratching over his collarbones.  Trying to find something to hold onto, frantic with need, and Genji, he’s being unfair.

 

Hanzo would forgive him anything right now, and he knows it.

 

Genji pulls back from where he’s nipping softly at Hanzo’s jaw and closes his free hand around the silk at Hanzo’s wrists.  Lifts them over Hanzo’s head and pins them there in the bedding, trapping him in place.

 

Hanzo hates that it’s exactly what he needs, but that doesn’t stop a fresh rush of slick from drenching Genji’s fingers.  Genji croons again, shoving his face into Hanzo’s throat, licking over his mark with blatant adoration.

 

“Anija,  _ gods,  _ you’re so wet.  Hanzo, fuck.”

 

Genji mumbles it like a prayer, profanities laced with Hanzo’s name, fucking into him in a tortuous rhythm.  Hanzo needs more, needs Genji’s knot, but just the spread of his fingers is enough to have Hanzo’s eyes rolling back into his head.  Warmth swells in his belly, higher and higher, and Hanzo’s going to come like this.

 

Held in place with Genji’s fist, his touch easing him open, Genji’s tongue laving at his throat.

 

_ “Genji.” _

 

It’s an accusation if anything, but Genji doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care.  Just kneads at him faster, nosing hard into Hanzo, growling over his words.

 

“Yeah, yeah, come for me, anija.  Been thinking about this for so long, come on, please,” and Hanzo goes rigid, and shakes to pieces in his arms.  

 

Genji works him through it, slipping further into Hanzo, the wet heat of him opening up for Genji’s fingers.  It’s a stark, vivid kind of euphoria that Hanzo has never felt before, and he’s breathless and overwhelmed. He shudders, elbows coming together, knees trying to close, spine bowing off the floor.  Everything is too much, and Hanzo is lost, choking out pathetic sounds as he thrashes in place. Come splashes over his abdomen, cock jerking, totally untouched yet throbbing with sensation.

 

“Oh, that’s it, Hanzo, that’s it, that’s perfect.  You’re ready for me, yeah?” Genji has all four of his fingers shoved into Hanzo now, down to his knuckles, and Hanzo can feel his walls twitching around them.

 

Clinging, that hollow emptiness finally starting to ease, if only a little.  Hanzo knows it won’t fade entirely until Genji is buried in him, knotted tight, coming in hot bursts deep within him.

 

Hanzo is so beyond ready that it is painful, and he nods fast, hands grasping at the sheets above his head, feet sliding through the tangle of fabric under him.

 

“Yes, I’m ready, I’m… it  _ hurts,” _ he hisses impatiently.

 

Genji withdraws his fingers, and Hanzo snaps his legs together, squeezing them tight.  Needs the pressure, needs  _ something,  _ even if he knows what comes next will be worth the sacrifice of Genji’s touch.  Genji lifts his slick-wet fingers to his mouth and licks over them, eyes falling closed at the taste.

 

“Oh, Hanzo,” he says, slipping his fingers between Hanzo’s lips with a purr, “you’re delicious.”

 

Hanzo’s slick is sweet, and he sucks it off Genji’s fingers dutifully.  It isn’t anything special, not like the drugged bliss of Genji’s expression seems to indicate, but it doesn’t matter.  Genji watches Hanzo lick his hand clean, eyes dark with lust, enraptured by the sight. Something tugs at his wrists— Genji unbinding them, setting Hanzo free, ribbon falling forgotten among the mess.  Hanzo tugs the tie in his hair out as well, and sighs as it goes loose around his face.

 

Genji finally lets his hand fall away from Hanzo’s mouth in favor of undressing him the rest of the way, tossing the soiled kimono into the far corner of the room once Hanzo is free of it.  He lays his palms flat against the insides of Hanzo’s thighs, spreading them wide, thumbs flitting lovingly over his slit. Hanzo shivers, but Genji doesn’t linger, sliding his hands away. Past Hanzo’s hips, across his ribs, running them up and down.  Touching every inch of Hanzo, bottom lip bitten between his teeth.

 

It’s worshipful, and reverent, and Genji looks at Hanzo like he’s something precious.  

 

Like he’s worthy.

 

Genji’s still kneeling between Hanzo’s legs, his cock bobbing thick and hard at his hips, base flared out with the promise of a knot.  His cheeks are pink, lips puffy from Hanzo’s kisses, sweat still gleaming on Genji’s skin. The muscles of his chest and abdomen and arms flex as he strokes adoringly over Hanzo’s body, and heat pulses over him.  Hanzo arches under the weight of Genji’s stare, needier than he’s ever been.

 

“You’re so beautiful like this, Hanzo,” Genji says, and Hanzo glares through the blush that rises to his cheeks.

 

“Then  _ fuck me,”  _ he bites out, and Genji laughs.

 

“Okay, okay,” Genji replies, leaning over Hanzo until they’re pressed flush against each other.

 

Genji takes himself hand, nudging the head of his cock against Hanzo, rubbing it teasingly against Hanzo’s slit.  Gets himself wet with Hanzo’s slick, stroking lazily without pressing in, and Hanzo lets out a pathetic sound.

 

“Dont, don’t.... Don’t tease, it hurts, it-”

 

“Shhh,” Genji says, pushing into Hanzo, into the hot, wet clench of him.  “Let me take care of you.”

 

Nothing has ever felt as good as Genji fucking into him, burying himself to the hilt.  Hanzo’s jaw shudders, a tear streaking down his cheek as he’s overwhelmed with sensation.   He wraps his arms around Genji, and Genji does the same, both of them tangled up until there’s no space between them.  Hanzo tucks his face into Genji, palms splayed against his back, fingertips digging in hard. Genji only slides out an inch or so before he shoves back in, and Hanzo rocks into it with a whine.

 

“Love you.  Genji, I love you,” he says, and Genji whines back, something breaking in him.

 

_ “Anija,”  _ Genji says, and it isn’t an ‘I love you’, but Hanzo doesn’t need one.  They’ve said it all before, and as confessions go, Genji’s already more than done his part.

 

Genji confessed in the dirt of the arena, blade glittering crimson with his opponents blood, fighting through everyone who stood in his way to get to Hanzo.

 

He slides a hand up between Hanzo’s shoulder blades to fist in his hair, and starts moving frantically between his thighs.  It’s rough, and messy, and just this side of violent.

 

It’s what Hanzo has needed all day, all week, and he holds onto Genji, and takes it.

 

Hanzo had known it would be good, but he hadn’t expected it to be like this— more than physical.  Overpowering, like he is flayed open and Genji is soothing the ache from inside. The mate bond is a living thing in them both, and Hanzo can feel it, stretched taut like a bowstring.  He moves with Genji, grinding down with every one of his thrusts, forcing Genji impossibly deeper. 

 

Genji snarls, and brings their mouths together.  It’s artless, all sharp teeth and ragged hunger, and Hanzo revels in the brutality.  He’s done this to Genji, made him mindless and desperate, and the omega in Hanzo preens at the thought.  He cannot help the smug vindication that fills him.

 

Genji, feral, for no one else but him.

 

It isn’t going to last long, not this first time.  The day has been one long tease, Genji and Hanzo just out of reach of one another, and they are both on edge.  Genji’s knot is already swelling as he fucks into Hanzo, each withdrawal more difficult than the last, and Hanzo breaks their kiss to beg.

 

“Knot me, do it, do it now,” and Hanzo shoves his face into Genji’s throat, and bites down hard.

 

Genji’s rhythm falters as Hanzo sinks his teeth in, further and further, until he tastes blood.  Further still, until the gore trickles warm down his chin, the scent of Genji’s rut riling in the air.  

 

Not all omegas mark their mates— not all alphas will allow it.

 

Hanzo doesn’t ask Genji’s permission, because he knows.

 

He  _ knows. _

 

Genji lets out a sob as his knot swells and thickens, tying him to Hanzo, stretching him wide.  He keeps grinding as much as the knot will allow, and that first burst of warmth within Hanzo is more than enough to have him rocketing hopelessly over the edge again.  

 

Genji comes, and comes, Hanzo trembling through it with him, blood in his mouth as releases his bite.  He rubs his face through the gore of the mark he’s left, panting into Genji’s skin as the pain of his cycle finally subsides, at least for the moment.  

 

They’re both shivering when Genji leans back to look at him.  Another rush of heat fills Hanzo— Genji’s still coming, will be for as long as they’re knotted together.  Hanzo watches his eyelashes flutter briefly at the sensation, listens to the wounded little sound he makes, like he isn’t entirely aware of it.  He runs a palm through the mess of fluid on Hanzo’s abdomen, knuckles bumping into Hanzo’s cock where it’s going soft between them. Massages Hanzo’s belly, and he knows it’s instinctive, something Genji can’t help.  

 

Nothing will take during an omega’s first heat, but Hanzo doesn’t bring that up.  Just lets Genji rub circles in the filth on his stomach, shivering with every fresh pulse of come he pumps into Hanzo, muscles twitching.  Genji reaches up with his other hand and thumbs over Hanzo’s mouth, wiping some of the blood away, cupping his cheek. Slips his index finger between Hanzo’s lips, pressing the pad of it into the sharp point of one of Hanzo’s canines, grinning.

 

“Vicious,” he says, and Hanzo nips at his finger, and clenches deliberately around Genji’s knot.  Genji jolts, letting out a ragged breath through his nose, whimpering in complaint.  _ “Vicious,”  _ he says again, and Hanzo shrugs, and tugs Genji down onto him.

 

It will be a while before Genji’s knot releases, and Hanzo basks in it, the feeling of being warm and stretched and sated.  His heat will flare up again when Genji unknots, will own them both for the better part of two days, and Hanzo knows he needs to take these quiet moments of stillness where he can get them.

 

Genji’s mark throbs in his throat, his weight pressing Hanzo down into the nest of clothes and blankets, the scent of him filling Hanzo up as surely as anything else.

 

“I’m glad you came home,” Hanzo says, and Genji lifts up and kisses his cheek.

 

“Always,” Genji says, and home, it’s not Hanamura, or Shimada castle.

 

It’s Hanzo.

 

Genji is breathtaking in the light from the candles, blood splattered across his throat, Hanzo’s slick gleaming in places on his skin.

 

_ Mine,  _ Hanzo thinks, and pulls him into another kiss.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed, give me some love!

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me nice things <3


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